


John The Revelator

by riddlelibrarian



Category: Faith (Airdorf Video Game)
Genre: Blindness, Canon-Typical Violence, Cults, Demonic Possession, Eye Trauma, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kidnapping, Multi, Priest Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:14:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26195467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riddlelibrarian/pseuds/riddlelibrarian
Relationships: Cult Leader Gary & MALPHAS, Cult Leader Gary/John Ward, Cult Leader Gary/Tiffany, John Ward & Father Garcia, John Ward & The UNSPEAKABLE, John Ward/Karen, Lisa Pearson & Tiffany, Michael Davies & Amy Martin
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

It started off as a tiny pain, something so miniscule, but there. It was easily ignored at first, until the pain became worse, like his brain was bubbling. For some reason, it made John think of ice cubes floating champagne. The abrasive bubbles popped and popped, near soundless, but he could feel the shockwaves. It hurt, it hurt…

John dropped the cross, bringing his hands to his head with a whine. The cultists moved closer, the monster hummed.

Something sharp touched the soft flesh under his jaw, like a sword, a threat, a warning, tilting his head up, forcing John to look into a huge black eye surrounded by sinewy limbs, like some kind of meat spider, but so, so much worse. Impossibly worse.

The impossible thing stared through him, to inside the furthest reaches of his soul, and John began to feel something not unlike when you’re being inspected by a doctor, but so much less human, and so malevolent. There wasn’t hunger, lust or greed, the evils of man, or any of the sins that made sense, made it feel human--like he was human--It was appraisal. 

Like a judge at a dog show, deeming the worth of a bitch.

A soft whine emanated from the back of John’s head, akin to what one would call “computerized” or “electronic,” both which weren’t entirely wrong.

It felt like, in John’s head, like someone was pulling out wires and rerouting them on a switchboard.

When the “rewiring” completed, John collapsed, cutting his throat on the nail as he hit the ground with a thud. He wrapped his hands around his neck and began to squeeze--to stop the blood, or at least to keep it from escaping.

There was no point in asking for help, John knew. The men surrounding him watched on, eyes curious, waiting to see what would happen, and he knew not one of them would be inclined to lift a finger to help. It was far easier to stay on the ground and conserve what energy he had to spare.

The cross sat just in arms reach across from him, salvation so close, but in order to grab it, John would have to remove a hand from his neck. He’d surely bleed out in seconds...he couldn’t reach it, not until the bleeding went down, but he knew he had to try to cling onto his faith to the very end.

Extending a bloodied hand, John reached for the long end of the silver cross. It slipped out of his grasp the first time, but on the second, he managed to hold on. He let out a relieved breath, almost a laugh, and started the arduous process of pulling it closer. He didn’t get very far, sadly, as a pitchfork caught the cross by the horizontal bits, preventing John from moving it further. He looked up to see one of the cultists standing over him, wielding the other end, face curved in a malicious smile. With a flick of their wrist, they sent the cross flying across the yard, into the darkness.

John gritted his teeth in frustration, tears streaming down his face. The cultist narrowed their eyes gleefully and leaned closer, using the pitchfork as leverage, they ran a scarred finger through John’s blood and raised it to their lips, tapping. A tongue lapped out at the fluid, and the figure shivered with delight.

“Oh, John,” The figure said in a distinctly male voice. “You’re  _ exactly  _ what I’ve been looking for.”

John opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it.

“Praise the UNSPEAKABLE, destroyer of the holy and divine! We, your loyal human servants, offer this man of faith to become your vessel…”

John blanched. Vessel? He moved his remaining hand away from his neck, letting the blood run more thoroughly down his neck. There was no way he’d accept that. He refused to end up like Michael and Amy.  _ If I bleed out and die before it takes me… _

Unfortunately, if John had the ability to bleed out, he’d have done so already. 

No, for once, death can’t touch him.

_ Our father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name… _

The demon didn’t let up, extending a hand for the priest, who suddenly felt so tiny in the face of evil.

It curled around John, reminding him distinctly of the way someone would scoop up a bug or maybe a little bird, with strange gentleness, but there was no doubt the strength in this entity’s hands. If it wanted, it could barely tighten its grip around John, and he’d explode like a mosquito. 

As the monster lifted John into the air, he made one last attempt to grab at his cross, hoping for one of those miracles people sang praises about.

And then it curled its fist and everything went dark.


	2. Sleep

John couldn’t even see his own hands, no matter how hard he tried to see, or how wide his eyes were. He raised them to his face, running them along the skin, searching desperately for some kind of explanation, a blockage, a sheet covering his eyes, maybe, but there was nothing there, and all he got was an irritated eye after giving it a particularly nasty poke from a nail.

The dirt below him had at some point changed to the seat of a car, and then the tiled floor of some kind of house or apartment, with John slipping in and out of consciousness the entire time, mostly unaware of what was going on.

At last, he passed out for the last time, waking up in a bed. It was oddly pleasant, a simple twin bed with a simple mattress and blanket, but nicer than hospital beds, and, from his experience, more comfortable than mental hospitals and jail cells.

No, this was someone’s bed.

John sat up, pulling the blanket away, and creeping to the edge. He slung one foot over, then the other, lowering them to the carpet. It was soft, unexpectedly, and smelled like it had been vacuumed. 

“Hello, John. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

John jerked up, turning to the sound of the voice.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” The voice continued. “And the trouble you have caused us.”

“You’re one of  _ them.  _ The cult.” John snarled. “The ones that did that to her. To Amy.”

“Yes, that was me.” The stranger said. “Call me Gary.”

“The words I’d like to call you, I can’t say because I made a vow.”

Gary’s voice rumbled, like a rolling thunderstorm, before breaking into a wheeze, and then a cough. “There are no gods here, John.”

“Not for you,” John replied bitterly. “God walks with me wherever I go.”

Gary was silent for a moment. “Did he walk with you to the Martins?”

“I-”

“How about when Karen left, John?”

“I-How do you know about that-”

“My master tells me everything I need to know.” Gary moved to the right, John turned his head to follow. “He told me about Amy, about the twins, about Father Garcia, about how...weak...you men of God are, and about you.”

A set of hands pressed into John’s shoulders from behind, nails digging into tender flesh. John yelped. The nails kneaded into the muscle, paralyzing him, as a face crept closer, a wiry beard brushing up against his ear, followed by a hoarse whisper. “You’re His favorite subject, John.”

With surprisingly minimal effort, John is pushed to the bed, his body still frozen, legs tucked underneath, shoulders and arms tense not unlike how a dead bug would posture itself.

Hands roamed up John’s body, starting from the hips and sliding forward, taking fabric with them, revealing bare skin. John wasn’t exactly fit by any means, with no muscles to boast and little bone to follow, but Gary found something to trace anyway, bringing a sharp nail down invisible lines, murmuring to himself as John lay, unable to do much more than twitch.

The sensation was strange to him--John rarely felt hands there, except to firmly guide. It was, more often a crop, bringing him penance and God’s mercy, but this...this almost felt good--It did feel good in fact, but he wasn’t about to admit it. The hands came around to his chest, counting the ribs, feeling the guts, sliding down and down-

At last, the hands pulled away, satisfied with what they had done, and the strength returned to John’s body. He pulled himself upright and hurriedly pulled his shirt back down. 

“Decent musculature, all organs, healthy vertebrae, everything is accounted for. I’m truly impressed,” Gary said. “Not at you, of course. The thralls...they get hungry, and they just love the flesh of holy men.”

“And my eyes?” John scratched earnestly at the places Gary had touched. 

“A gift, from The UNSPEAKABLE.”

“Tell him I don’t want it,” John snarled.

Gary didn’t seem bothered by this, at least, he didn’t show it in his voice. “Tell Him yourself, then. He has, fortunately for you, chosen you as his prophet, his voice on Earth. You have been blessed-”

“THIS IS NOT A BLESSING!” John rounded on where he last heard Gary’s voice, but as soon as he did, he got the feeling that Gary was no longer there.

“Did the men in your holy pages not say the same?” Gary whispered. “Do they not curse God for his gifts? Yet, despite their refusal, they always come around, don’t they? They always accept his...love.” Gary’s voice drips with condescension. “Your...god...isn’t the only one with that kind of power.”

John couldn’t bear to deny Gary’s words, he knew he was right, and he simply lacked the resolve to argue any further, leaning back down on the bed with a slow sigh.

“Good. You’ll need your rest as your body fully recovers from the unity.” Gary told him. 

John started to ask what the hell Gary was talking about, trying to sit upright once again, demanding to know what he'd meant by unity, but the cultist paid him no mind.

“Shhh,” Gary murmured, and John found that he couldn’t move his tongue, couldn’t keep his eyes open either, so he gave up and quit struggling. The last thing he heard was the sound of a door creaking closed, followed by deep, eerie laughter.

It sounded almost like...like there were two people laughing, but he knew only one person was in the room, he knew this because the other voice came from inside his head, rattling around in his skull like a piece of ice in a cup.


End file.
